Breaking Souls
by angela evans
Summary: “What could she ever say... that would satisfy you?” . . . Well, what could she?


**Breaking Souls**  
**   
**Rating: R

Summary: Jack has a visitor. . .

Spoilers: "Q&A" and "Masquerade"

Classification: Alternate Universe

Disclaimer: I own them not. ABC/JJ Abrams/Bad Robot does.

A/N: This is kind of an in-ep for "Masquerade", but an AU one, and it's pre-Noah. The Russian is from Freelang.net. Special thanks to Jaci, and extra extra extra special thanks to my Little One ;)
    
    _Fears conspire, they won't go away_
    
    _And I know, and I see, you'll be breaking hearts again_
    
    _You break me gently_
    
    _Break me gently_
    
    _Break me gently_
    
    _Break my fall in vain_
    
    _Pain won't go, rest in peace_
    
    _And I look, and I see, you could be breaking souls again_

_          "Break Me Gently" – Doves_

It was poring rain the afternoon that Jack Bristow arrived at his flat in London. He climbed the dark stairs and unlocked the door with his key and stepped inside. As he removed his overcoat, droplets of the rain that had clung to him in a fine mist fell from the coat, creating a puddle on the floor. But Jack did not care. He hadn't come here to worry about wet floors. He had come here to hide.

He was good at hiding. Hiding the fact that he was a double, hiding his emotions, hiding from those who were closest to him. Hiding from Sydney. But today he was hiding from his past. It had been only a few days since Sydney, her lips still slightly blue from the cold ocean she'd submerged her Buick in, had told him that Laura was still alive.

"And as that car started to fill with water, I knew what my mother had done in the same situation. Dad, she could have planned that accident."

Oh, how hard it had been to hide his gut reaction from her. Jack had wanted to scream out loud, to beat something into a bloody pulp. Laura was alive. The bitch was still living. And what was worse was the fact that she had almost caused Sydney's death. Jack shuddered to think what could have happened, how that chase could have ended.

He had been so shaken up he'd actually made an appointment with Barnett. He'd wanted to talk to her about Laura, about the pain she'd caused, about how he'd distanced himself from Sydney because she looked so much like her mother. But he'd frozen outside her office door, and didn't go in.

Instead he came to London. He had come here after Laura had died, needing to isolate himself from the world, from his daughter's big brown eyes. Now he had come here again, seeking the solace of the small apartment. 

Jack walked to the kitchenette and opened the cupboard above the sink. He pulled out a glass and placed it on the counter. From a cabinet under the sink, he produced a bottle of whiskey. Jack was a hard liquor man – whiskey, gin, rum. The only thing he wouldn't touch was vodka. That had been Laura's drink of choice. The amber liquid filled the glass, and putting down the whiskey bottle, he brought the glass to his lips.

It burned his throat on the way down and Jack relished the sensation.  It was bitter, just like he was. He walked to the living room area and sat down on the couch, loosening his tie. The remote to the stereo was still on the end table. Jack picked it up and flipped it on. The airy strains of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata filled the air as Jack stretched out.

He had just closed his eyes when he felt a cool breeze on his face. Getting up, he put down his glass of whiskey on the end table and followed the breeze. His bedroom window was open, the rain pouring in through the opening. He shut the window, then pulled his spare Glock 9mm from the night table. 

Jack let the gun hang at his side as he made his way down the hall back to the living room. He hadn't turned on the lights, so it was dark, what little light there was coming in the windows was just enough to let him see the figure perched on his couch. It was then he smelled it – a dusky, spicy sent. Perfume. _Her_ perfume.

Jack raised his gun. The figure snapped something shut and then turned on the light. 

"Hello, Jack," Laura said. She tucked her compact back into her purse. "I see you've been drinking again," she said, nodding towards his whiskey glass.

"My drinking habits are none of your business," Jack said in the best even, controlled tone he could manage. "Nothing I do is."

"Jack," Laura purred, slipping gracefully off of the couch, "can't we just leave all that in the past?"

"No. You didn't stay there."

She held his gaze steady with her eyes – her eyes that were so much like Sydney's – as she made her way over to him. Her fingertips – they felt like velvet – brushed his hand as she took the gun from him and put it down on the table. "There now," she said, her breath caressing her cheek, "is that any way to greet an old friend?"

Jack didn't reply, he only unwrapped himself from her arm that had twined itself around his neck and stalked to the other side of the room.

"There was a time when you couldn't keep your hands off me," Laura said, her full lips pouting slightly.

Jack's insides clenched. There had been a time when he felt he would have died if he had not been able to feel the warmth of Laura's smooth skin under his fingers, like a summer peach in his hands. But that was _Laura_, he reminded himself, this was _Irina_.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, voice gruff.

"Sydney." Their daughter's name dropped like a stone in pond, the ripples penetrating Jack's very core.

"No," he growled, "You are not a part of her life anymore. You gave up that right a very long time ago."

"I've been watching her, Jack, she's very beautiful. And a very good spy. She's like her father that way."

Jack was surprised at Laura's off-hand compliment. "I know she's not like me," he said. "She'll never be fool enough to get tricked by someone she loves."

Laura said nothing, she simply sat down at the small table by the kitchenette and looked at Jack expectantly. When he still stood by the couch, staring at her with hurt in his eyes, she spoke, "Aren't you going to offer me anything? A drink? You know what I like."

Jack spurred himself into motion, and stiffly walked into the kitchen. "I haven't got any. I never touch it," he replied. 

"Coffee, then," she replied, shrugging her shoulders like it was all the same to her. 

Jack found two mugs in the cupboard and placed them on the counter while he waited for the coffee to brew. He resented Laura's intrusion on his privacy – it was something she'd been doing as long as he'd known her, he realized.

The coffee maker beeped rudely, demanding that Jack cease his internal monologue and pour the steaming, dark liquid into the mugs, filling them almost to the brim. He automatically reached for the sugar bowl, to put a few spoonfuls in Laura's. He'd always taken his black, she liked milk and sugar. It was so easy to fall back into the old pattern – too easy. That was why they had kept the investigation into her death from him, why they had thought him capable of helping her. 

Jack sat down at the table, across from Laura and pushed her cup over to her. He didn't hand it to her for fear of feeling her silky skin under his rough hands again. He'd managed to handle it composedly before, but now, every second it was getting harder.

"How is she, Jack?" Laura asked softly, bringing their daughter back into the conversation. Looking at Laura, Jack was amazed that two people could be so similar – of the same blood – and yet, so different. Sydney was like Laura. She wasn't like Irina.

"Sydney is fine," he answered gruffly, the tone he used meant _this conversation is over_.

But Laura pressed on. "She knows, doesn't she? You told her the truth."

Jack looked at his wife. Even after all that, she was still his wife. Still Sydney's mother. He couldn't erase the past, no matter how much he wanted to. No matter how much he wanted to take back the last twenty years, no matter how much he wanted to rewind time and take away a six year old's mother rather than her father.

"Yes, I told her," Jack said. "I should have told her before. Before she hated me too."

"She can't hate you, Jack," Laura insisted. Why did she have to be nice? Why was she Laura tonight, and not Irina?

"She does," he said, more to himself than anyone.

"Does she want," Laura hesitated, "…to find me?"

Jack's heart clenched when he heard the hope in her voice. That she could believe that Sydney would, knowing what she had done, that Sydney would – that she could – forgive her. It was only natural, he supposed. It was the last shred of hope he clung to. He thought back to his conversation with her in the car.

_"Searching for that woman will accomplish nothing! No good can come from it!"_

_"I need to know where she is."_

"No," he lied naturally. 

Laura said nothing, she just sipped her coffee. She made a face and looked up at him. "This coffee tastes horrible. I thought you knew the way I liked it. Now go get me a new cup, and make it quick."

Jack took her cup, and his ignored one, back to the kitchen and left them on the sideboard. He turned around to face her. "Leave."

Laura didn't move. "Jack," she placated. 

He ignored her and crossed to the living room and reclaimed his forgotten glass of whiskey. He took a sip, letting the bitter liquid burn his throat.

Laura turned in her chair to look at him. "She's one of us, isn't she?"

"Depends on how you define 'us'," Jack said, choosing to stare at the wall rather than turn and face her.

"She's a spy, isn't she?" Laura asked. "A double."

Jack said nothing, knowing full well that Laura was just asking for his confirmation of what she already knew.

"Her handler, William Vaughn's boy," Jack was amazed at how easily one of her targets' names could roll off her tongue. ". . . what's his name, Michael? He loves her."

"What would you know about love?" Jack asked bitterly.

"Ia tibia lioubliou," she replied in flawless Russian. _I love you_.

_"What could she ever say... that would satisfy you?"_

Jack's fist tightened around his whiskey glass, tightened until it popped, in an explosion of crystal shards that made them both jump. He opened his hand and stared at his palm numbly, watching his warm, red blood flood over the sparkling shards of glass and mixing with the whiskey. He heard Laura's sharp intake of breath.

"Come," she said, taking his wrist, "we will clean that up." She led him into the bathroom, where she ran cool water over his hand, washing away the shards, blood, and alcohol. Jack winced slightly as a shard ripped free from his palm. Laura murmured something soothing, as if he were four-year-old Sydney, who'd fallen and cut her hand on broken glass.

"You don't have to do this," Jack managed.

"Nonsense," Laura shushed him and went back to tending his wound. When she finished bandaging it, she brushed her lips over it in the lightest of kisses. Jack's hand felt like it was on fire. She looked up at him with her Sydney-eyes when he flinched.

"You broke my soul," Jack whispered, "My soul."

She didn't blink. "Your soul. But not your heart?"

"Aren't they the same?" he asked.

"Niet," she whispered, the hard consonants sounding soft in her mother tongue. She reached up and put her hand to his mouth to forestall any replies. "Niet," she repeated.

Her fingers were silky against his lips as the slid away from this face. "The soul does not break," she whispered, "only the heart does. Your soul is your own."

"No," Jack whispered. "My soul did break." He knew that it had, that he had loved her so much it hurt, why he was so bitter. "I loved you, Laura."

She trembled slightly. Jack wondered if she would cry. If he would.

"Loved me?" she asked, the tears threatening to spill. "You loved me? I'm the broken one, Jack, I betrayed you and myself."

"I still love you," he whispered. "I can't stop it."

Laura looked up at him, her brown eyes shining with tears. Like her heart was breaking. "You're breaking me, Jack, breaking my soul."

"Your soul?" he asked, "But not your heart?"

"Niet," she said, reaching for his face. She pulled him to her and he wrapped his arms around her slim body. She pressed her lips to his and felt him respond with the urgency of pain, of broken people.

Their movements were both fast and hurried as well as achingly slow. They were touching places that hadn't been touched in years. It was bittersweet. Rediscovering each other. Jack was slowly tracing all of her curves, following the outlines of her body – remembering everything – their first night together, Sydney's conception . . .  In some ways, it was healing, in other ways, it broke them in new ways. This was only one night, and in the morning, they would be back where they had been and would be for all eternity.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Jack awoke from a light slumber when he heard the rustling of clothing being gathered. He opened his heavy, sleepy eyes and saw Laura getting dressed. She was leaving. Things were going back to the way they were.

She dressed quickly, aware that he was watching her. She crossed the room and kissed his cheek. "Spoknoch," she whispered. Russian for good night, the word for parting very late in the dark.

She left, he heard the soft click of the door behind her, and the sound of his soul breaking anew.
    
    _Break my fall in vain_
    
    _Pain won't go, rest in peace_
    
    _And I look, and I see, you could be breaking souls again._
    
    ~ fin ~


End file.
